


Autoparts

by rat just a straight up rat (PresisDead)



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Brief mention of guilt for being a car fucker, Embarrassment, Gets sexy but don’t worry ur little asses, Other, basically if u wanted roger Taylor being into his car but as a semi-realistic fic here it is, not too crazy ;), witness me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 23:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17212568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PresisDead/pseuds/rat%20just%20a%20straight%20up%20rat
Summary: Roger Taylor is into his car, and in denial.





	1. reckoning is upon us

The car hummed beneath him, running as he waited, idle. The path was clear, the night sky tinting the orange of the sunset, darkening everything around him. His hand gripped the leather, just waiting. The waiting was the worst part, but it was what made it worth it in the end. No one in sight. Not a single soul. The radio softly played, and Roger, afraid of what he’d become if he waited a moment longer, took a breath. 

‘This... this can’t be that awful,’ he reasoned. He was talking to the air. ‘It’s just the thrill isn’t it? Of being out here? That’s got to be it,’ he kept whispering, reasoning with shadows that had no capacity to judge. Reasoning with himself.  
‘It’s not this car. She’s beautiful but-‘  
He cut himself off. Too much talk and he’d end up driving home in a hurry to avoid thinking about it.

He lowered his hand to his zipper, sweat on his forehead, intentions clear. The guilt was palpable, but above the white noise of his own qualms, the thrill rang out. The exhilaration won, propelling his hand to finish the task.


	2. He got his hands on that grease gun y’all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was a dare

Roger was shaking. The trembling wouldn’t stop, and neither would his breath, shallow in and out, slipping from his grasp. He wanted to catch his breath, but in his head, all he could think was how  _ strange _ he was for this. His hand was in his pants, sweaty and nervous. He was halfway there, but afraid to even start.   
  
If the thrill of getting caught was what forced him to this place, that didn’t explain his shame, his guilt. He couldn’t come up with excuses anymore. He had to accept that what got him  _ excited  _ was his car. The buzzing underneath him, the warm heated leather seats, the cold metal, the paneling and the details some mechanic put  _ hours _ into. Fuck. He bucked his hips a little, hand slowly beginning its inevitable movement. He grasped at the seat, finding comfort in how plush it was. He quickened his pace, unabashedly consumed by pleasure. His hand, which was scratching desperately at his beautiful leather seats, unhinged itself. He was in the moment, but the last thing he needed or wanted was scratches in his leather seats. He took to holding onto the wheel, using it as a handle. He was touching himself with vigor now, pathetic whimpers crawling their way up his throat, just as ashamed as he was, relishing in the absolutely  _ rancid  _ desire he held. His shirt, hanging open fashionably revealed the rush of blood going to his chest, the blush slowly creeping up his neck and face. The shadows he had been avoiding watched from the corners of the car, hidden away, judging. He was almost there, but he knew he’d need something more if he were to actually be satisfied. He shifted his body, so that his stick shift was more accessible to his free hand. He let out a sigh, softer than he intended, grasping onto the part with fervor. He caressed it, shame prickling at the corners of his eyes, as he finished right onto the other seat.


End file.
